Jigsaw
by S J Smith
Summary: Chris Mustang wants to find out why her brother and sister-in-law were murdered. Note: Pre-series fic. Additional warnings inside.


**Title:** Jigsaw

**Author:** S J Smith

**Rating:** Teen

**Summary:** Chris wants to know why her brother and sister-in-law were murdered.

**Disclaimer:** Never in a billion years (but a fangirl can dream!).

**Notes: **This was written for the Dreamwidth comm, Fandom_Stocking. WARNINGS: Contains sexual harassment, mentions of murder, racism and other nasty stuff; just like real life. Only somewhat more sanitized.

* * *

The information came slow, but waiting was something Chris had learned to do exceptionally well. Facts trickled in, slow as sap rising in the trees after a hard winter, but she watched closely as they began to form actual pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle. The hard part was fitting all the pieces together to make a picture.

That took up almost an office of its own, with locked file cabinets and a safe tucked into the floor. Chris kept everything within that room in a running code – if someone looked, those files resembled ledgers and bookkeeping, as well as information on regular clients – hat size, shoe size, whether the man had a wife or not, reports on his business, if he was the owner, or someone higher up in that office food chain. Favorite drinks and foods and scents, and what the girls said about him after a 'date'. All right, so Chris had learned something from her brother about codes when he'd been studying alchemy – and she still had his alchemy books, too, squirreled away for safekeeping. Someday, maybe, she'd pass them on to Roy. For now, he was too young to get involved in any of that, and the boarding school he was attending kept him safe enough from his aunt's machinations.

But the information kept coming in, bit by bit, then chunk by chunk, and Chris could start to put together a picture of what had happened; why her brother and his wife were killed. Made to look like a random hate crime, especially with the slogans splashed on the walls of their bedroom where the police had found their bodies, Chris had doubted that. She and Ryan were third generation Amestrians; and while there was a hint of their bloodline in their coloring and the shape of their eyes, it wasn't common knowledge their grandfather had left Xing to try his fortune in Amestris. And Cassandra was as Amestrian as they came – pretty blond hair and sparkling blue eyes – with a bloodline almost as impressive as the Armstrong family. Chris hadn't bought that her family had been murdered for being Xingese, and the knowledge she gathered kept building into a case she knew she'd have to take on her own.

Grandfather's best business came from trading secrets – the family fortune, such as it was, was built on the information he gathered. Daddy had fallen into the family trade, and Chris discovered at an early age that she was good at it. Ryan, on the other hand, wasn't – oh, he enjoyed the puzzles, and the gathering information part, but not the selling of it. And besides, Momma's alchemy stole his heart at an early age. He'd rather be pushing the limits of a transmutation circle than figuring out why client A wanted to know about client B's business practices, and why client D might want to know about both of their activities outside of the office.

But Daddy and Momma, and Grandfather, too, had all been taken from her early, even before Ryan and Cassie, and once Chris had all the pieces of the puzzle together, she told her girls to take care of the business, and make sure little Roy was safe. If she didn't come back, she'd left the papers in proper order, and Andrea could take over where she'd left off, and keep Roy safe at his school, as far away from the family business as possible.

For now, though, Chris had her own hunting to do.

* * *

Everyone in the family had two or three different aliases – Julia Christmas was a favorite of hers, though Madge Turner and Louise Bakersfield had their own charms, and she always had a few other names for backup as necessary. For this trip, she designed a brand new persona, one with out any ties to the family, or any of their clientele. Minerva Hotchkiss was newly out of the south, fresh-faced and relatively innocent, though with a slightly jaded quality to her. When spoken to, she alluded to a relationship with a married businessman that had gone sour, and her needing to leave her hometown, maybe a little more quickly than she'd liked. Immersing herself in Minerva's life, Chris drowned her sense of self, letting Minerva's bubbly personality carry her along. Minerva found a job working in a small bank, where her customers grew to know her, and the men enjoyed her not-quite-but-almost-daring dresses and sweet smiles. The sympathetic purr of her voice thrilled more than one customer, though she demurely turned down all offers of dinners, and dances, and said she had to take care of herself first.

But Charles Reingott was used to women paying attention to him, and didn't particularly care for taking 'no' as an answer. When charm didn't work, he waited outside for Minerva when she got off work, and ushered her to his car.

"This is harassment," Minerva told him coldly as she adjusted her skirt so it covered her knees.

"Say what you want, baby, I know your story, and you and I both know the way women get ahead in this world." Reingott smiled at her, showing a golden tooth behind his fleshy lips. His hand covered her knee and she batted it away, making him laugh. "Dear girl, don't play hard to get. You and I will enjoy it a lot more if you just relax, and enjoy it."

Minerva folded her arms, staring straight ahead, her chin tilted up and her lips nearly disappearing in her disapproval. "If you know what's good for you, you'll stop the car at the corner and let me out."

"Now why would I want to do that?" Reingott flashed her a smile, the tip of his tongue coming out to touch his lower lip. His eyes lingered on her breasts, and Minerva tugged her wrap closer when she realized, making him laugh. "Truly, my dear, you're wasted at that little bank. I can offer you so much more."

"What you're offering, I don't want," Minerva retorted.

"You don't even know what I'm offering, not until I tell you." He piloted the car into the heart of the city, where the more expensive houses sat like miniature castles, ringed in with fences and exquisite lawns, adorned with trees and bushes and flowers arranged to enhance the house and cause the neighbors – and any sightseers – envy.

Minerva's hands were white-knuckled when Reingott pulled into a long driveway, a guard opening a gate to allow them access to the house on a small hill, just high enough that it could lord it over the neighbors. Reingott got out, opening Minerva's door and offering her his hand. She ignored it, but climbed out of the vehicle, her body stiffening when he placed his hand in the small of her back to guide her into the mansion.

A butler bowed them into the foyer, and took Reingott's coat. He nodded when Minerva said she'd keep her own, and offered to bring coffee to the den. Reingott waved him off expansively and kept Minerva moving, heading into a downstairs room appointed in leathers and dark wood, a fire blazing in one corner beneath an impressive rack of antlers from some long-dead beast. "Please, sit, Minerva," he said.

"I'd rather stand," she said stiffly.

"Oh, but you're not going to be comfortable in those heels." He shot an admiring look at her legs.

"I'll be fine."

"Would you like something to drink?" Reingott ignored her frosty reception to pull a bottle down from his liquor cabinet, along with two glasses. He poured himself two fingers of whiskey, and sloshed some in a glass for her, too. When she didn't accept it, he shrugged, setting the glass down on a side table. He settled into one of the plush leather sofas. "Come join me, Minerva." When she remained standing, he showed a flash of his teeth in something very dissimilar to a smile. "I have to insist."

Instead, Minerva walked slowly across the room, heading for a small secretary's desk. She studied it, and the books on the shelves, and ignored the way Reingott watched her ass. "You have a lot of nice things, Mr. Reingott."

"Plenty of them," he said.

"A good business, too, from what I understand."

"I'm proud of it," Reingott said, before taking a sip of his whiskey. He let the liquid burn his mouth before he swallowed it, letting out a gusty sigh as it hit his gut.

"And the way you do business," Minerva turned slowly, fumbling with the latch of her handbag, "are you proud of that, too?"

"Oh, my dear, you shouldn't worry your head about that." He froze when a small handgun came out of her purse, pointing directly at his face. His smile faltered just for a second, then came back, brighter than ever. "What's that, Minerva?"

"What does it look like?"

"A little popgun a woman might carry for protection. You don't have any reason to be afraid of me, Minerva." Reingott patted the seat of the couch next to him. "Now, put that away and come here, and sit with me."

She hesitated for a few seconds, then, as if she realized he held all the cards, she sighed, her shoulders slumping. The gun disappeared back into her handbag as Minerva made her way to the couch, sitting down. Her elbow bumped him, the whiskey spilling all over his chest. "Sorry!"

Cold fury swirled over his face for a split second, but he tamped it down. "It was an accident."

Minerva took his glass. "Let me pour you more!" Rising, she went to the liquor cabinet, pouring another two fingers of whiskey before returning to the couch and handing it to Reingott.

She sat down, turning slightly to face him, but her knees were still together, her elbows pressed tight to her side. Not relaxed, still alert. Well, so be it. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to impress on a woman that she was under his care and control. Taking a sip of the whiskey, he used his forefinger to skim along her thigh, raising her dress up. She huffed, and pushed it back down, making him laugh. "Minerva, you're here with me now," he said, "and you'd better get used to it. What I want, I get."

"Is that so?" Her dark eyes narrowed as she studied him.

"It is." Reingott smiled at her and downed his whiskey, putting the glass down. "You've been mine ever since you stepped into my car."

"And if I disagree?"

"Oh, Minerva, women never disagree. Not virgins, not old marrieds." He laughed. "And I know you've been around the block a few times. You know what's good for you, you'll cooperate, and you'll be well rewarded for it."

"What do you mean, old marrieds?" she asked.

"Sweetheart, just what I said. Girls don't get to make a choice about me." Reingott smiled. "If they think they can, I'm afraid I have to dissuade them of that."

"Is that so? And what happens when you dissuade them of it?"

Reingott set his hand on her knee, pleased when she didn't automatically knock it away. "You ask a lot of questions, don't you? I suppose that's all right." This time, he'd play along. "Well, they need to be made an example of. You know what that's like, don't you? Even in the south, I'm sure there are people who are better than others, who have a higher standing in the community. Much like my standing compared to yours. You're just a little bit of skirt that ran away from home, and me, well. I could help you, a lot, or I could hurt you." He closed his hand over her knee and squeezed, hard, right behind the kneecap, making her protest and swat at him. Laughing, he relaxed his hand, though he didn't take it away.

"So, who've you hurt? To make your point?" Minerva had her hand ready to push his away again.

"I don't think I really need to answer that," Reingott said. He tugged at his collar with his free hand. His throat seemed tight, and he wanted something to drink. Not booze, maybe, but water. Water sounded good.

"Was it a pretty little blonde? Cassandra Mustang, married to Ryan Mustang?"

He frowned, wondering where she'd gotten those names. "Who are they?"

"Did she spurn your advances, and you couldn't handle it? Is that why you had them killed?"

"Do you hear yourself, my dear?" Reingott tried to smile again. "There's nothing you can prove. Everything you're saying is pure conjecture. And why does it matter to you, anyway? You're not her sister…a friend? Or maybe not her friend, but his?" He peered at her more closely, blinking when she wouldn't come into focus. He tried to raise his hand but it flopped loosely at the end of his wrist. Opening his mouth, he tried to say something, but the words came out a breathy moan. He gasped, his body slowly obeying him as he tried to turn to the woman sitting next to him. Her cold smile made something inside him shudder.

Minerva got to her feet. "I have a brother. Maybe you've heard of him – Ryan Mustang. He and his wife, Cassandra, moved here, and now they're dead. And everything points to you. I just didn't know why, not until now." She turned to face Reingott. "That dryness in your throat, that's proof the poison I put in your drink is working. You're going to be paralyzed in a little while – won't be able to scream or move, but you'll be able to feel all your organs shut down. The last one to go will be your heart." Leaning over, she put her hand on the back of the couch, her mouth close to his ear. "And while you're dying, I want you to remember what you did to my brother and my sister, and all the other horrible things that you ordered done to the other women you've hurt in your past." Minerva drew back far enough to stare deep into his eyes. "You've forced yourself on your last woman, and what's really amazing about this poison? It'll look like you had a heart attack. And as much as I'd like to sit here and watch you die, I have to go." She plucked a handkerchief out of her purse and wiped his glass clean, and the back of the couch. She polished the whiskey bottle while Reingott gasped and gurgled, trying to fight his way free of the paralysis.

Minerva brought a pair of gloves out of her purse and slipped them on, adjusting her wrap around her shoulders, and headed for the window. "Don't bother your butler, I'll let myself out," she said airily, and opened one of the glass doors that led out into the garden. Hesitating in the opening, she said, "Enjoy your last few minutes, Mr. Reingott. They're all you have left in this world," and closed the door behind her.

The fire crackled and sparked, and Reingott wished he could feel its warmth. His heart beat in his ears, each thud coming slower, and slower, until it ended with a low murmur, and Reingott slumped on the couch, his last breath escaping him in a whine.

* * *

The newspapers all shouted the headlines above the fold, that Charles Reingott had died during the night. Without any heirs, his business would be taken over by the shareholders.

Minerva Hotchkiss filed her resignation from the bank, saying she couldn't stay in a place so far from home, and walked out of the building, shading her eyes for a few seconds. A folded newspaper tucked under her arm, she gathered her few things from the boarding house, and caught the next train south. After a few stops, she left the train, renting a small room from a pay-here, no questions asked, type of hotel, and she cut her hair, had it colored, and burned all of Minerva Hotchkiss's clothes and personal items.

Liandra Compton climbed on a train three days later, heading north. She stepped off the train in Central City, hailing a cab. She had it drop her off ten blocks from her destination, far enough away that she'd be able to tell if anyone was tailing her. The Barking Spider wasn't open for business, but once she decided it was safe, she headed to the back door and knocked on it.

Andrea opened the door, smiling when she saw who it was. She opened her arms, enfolding her in them. "Welcome home, Chris."

And Chris sighed, clinging to her. "It's over," she said softly, "he's gone, and his business will fall apart once the newspapers get the information on his secret files." She wiped her eyes and straightened. "Thanks for taking care of the business for me."

Andrea gave her hug. "It wasn't too bad while you were gone. The books are even in order, and we got some new information about the Red River. There's a factory up north, and the water seems to be contaminated. There are kids getting sick and old people dying."

Chris took a deep breath. "All right. We'll look into it." She grasped her friend's arm. "But give me a few minutes, okay?"

"Sure." Andrea smiled at her, and wriggled off.

Chris hauled herself into her office, closing the door tightly. Opening her desk drawer, she took out a small photograph in a cheap frame, one of Ryan and Cassie, and baby Roy, all of them smiling brightly. Swallowing hard, she touched the glass above her brother's face. "Don't worry," she whispered, "I'll take care of your boy." Ryan's smiling face vanished in a haze of tears. "No one will ever hurt Roy. Not if I can help it."

* * *

_end_


End file.
